Crazy Page 7
yikes!izzy: BYE!
condorboy: bye?
[yikes!izzy is offline.]
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Sunday, December 18—12:05 AM
Subject: kissing girls (continued)
Connor,
I’ve told you about my school and how everyone considers themselves so “enlightened,” right? Well, they’re not. They’re fakes like everyone else; they just have bigger vocabularies and different bumper stickers on their minivans. The Two Aris are just like all the other prep-school boys in the world. An example: On the first day of school, my art teacher asked everyone who their favorite artists are, and yes, I admit that maybe I was in a darker mood than usual and would have answered differently any other day, but she should have at least pretended to not be horrified when I said Francis Bacon and Joel-Peter Witkin. You should have seen her face, Connor. She probably thought she was looking at a future serial killer. What was I supposed to say? That I love Monet? Edward Hopper? NORMAN FUCKING ROCKWELL?!
Now back to the topic from last night. All the girls at my school—and every other private school in Seattle, from what I hear—have decided that the new cool thing for the year is for all the girls to pretend to be bisexual, which basically just involves getting drunk at parties and making out with each other in front of their boyfriends. It’s not like they have actual relationships. They’re just trying on the identity like it’s some kind of performance, then they take it off whenever it’s convenient. They don’t have to deal with the other things that come with it, like homophobic assholes and fucked-up laws.
I was telling my sister and Karen about this one girl in particular who’s notorious for drinking too many wine coolers and running around asking all the boys what girl they want her to make out with. Gennifer just rolled her eyes and said, “What a dumbass,” but Karen got real quiet and her jaw started grinding, and she looked like she wanted to punch something. Gennifer and I just sort of looked at her, wondering what was the right thing to say, then Karen let out a big sigh and started shaking her head.
“It’s not something you can just take off when the party’s over,” she said. “It’s not something you put on like a costume to entertain your horny boyfriends. Being gay is something people lose their families for. It’s something they get beat up for. It’s something people still get killed for. It’s not a fucking party trick.”
Karen grew up in a small farm town in Idaho. She got beat up a lot for looking so butch. Her parents disowned her. She always jokes that she’s spent more money on therapy than college and grad school combined. But it’s not funny. None of it is funny.
I wish you could meet Gennifer and Karen. Besides you, they’re the best things in my life. You should really visit, you know. Soon.
Love,
Isabel
(P.S. I got into Reed.)
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Monday, December 19—4:53 PM
Subject: Re: kissing girls (continued)
Dear Isabel,
Really? You’re inviting me over? Let me think about it. . . . YES! I would love to meet them. I really would. What if I came the weekend of New Year’s? I just asked my mom and she said I can even stay the night as long as I don’t sleep in the same room as you. As if anything would happen. What a joke. Ha, ha, very funny. . . . It’s funny, right?
It’s too easy to forget how fucked up the rest of the world is when we live where we do. Mom talks about that a lot, about how we live in a sort of utopian bubble and aren’t reminded enough how broken it is outside, how much suffering there is. And then her best friend, Liza, who’s always over says something about White Guilt, and then they chuckle and pour a glass of Pinot and go sit outside to watch the sunset. I’m not sure what they find so funny about White Guilt, or even what it means, but I am aware that we pretty much live in a fantasy world. But I’m glad it exists for people like Karen to come to and feel safe finally. But I wonder what it means if the people who were raised here never leave, if we just stay in this bubble for the rest of our lives.
Things are getting better between me and Jeremy. It almost feels back to normal. I think it’s because he’s started hooking up with this freshman kid he said exuded a gay vibe, so he started talking to him one day, and they hung out a couple times, and his suspicions were indeed confirmed. I asked him if he thought I had a gay vibe, and he said not really. So I asked him why he kissed me if he didn’t think I was gay, and he just looked at me like I was a dumb kid and said, “Because you’re cute, you dork,” like it’s totally obvious and I’m an idiot for not knowing about it. But honestly—and I’m not just fishing for compliments or anything—I’ve never really considered myself attractive. In fact, I’ve always been pretty insecure about my height and how skinny I am, and my hair always looks like I just woke up, and I have this one perpetual zit on my forehead that never goes away. But I don’t know. I guess I’m not the best judge of what makes guys attractive. What do you think? Be honest. I really want to know.
So what do you think about me visiting that weekend? It’ll be like the best Christmas present ever.
Love,
Connor
(P.S. Congratulations!)
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Wednesday, December 21—3:12 AM
Subject: spelling
Dear Connor,
There is something I believe in very deeply. Some people have Jesus. I have English. Here is one more reason I hate phones, specifically cell phones: texting. Sure, it seems convenient, but it is destroying the English language. I refuse to write in text speak. You will never read an LOL or ROTFL or WTF from me. NEVER! Our forepeople didn’t work for thousands of years creating this eloquent tool of expression only to have it rolled in the technological mud by a bunch of teenagers who are too lazy to spell correctly. We’re getting dumber as a society, Connor, and I refuse to be a part of it.
I’m feeling way better now. Like I’ve never felt this good in my life. I don’t know what happened, but suddenly it sort of feels like sleep is something I’ve grown out of. Which is fine with me, because I have so much to do. I finished all my college applications in two days. TWO DAYS! I think it’s a new world record. And they’re good, too. Brilliant, in fact. That’s the good news.
The bad news is no one else seems quite as thrilled about my newfound energy. I got sent home from school early today, which was fine with me because of course I didn’t actually go home, I just wandered around Broadway talking to people, but I guess my phone was ringing the whole time, but I had it turned off, and my dad was calling because the principal called him and told him I was being disruptive in class because I kept interrupting the teacher. This is what he told me when I got home, and I tried to explain to him that I was just taking an active role in my education by asking questions, like isn’t that what education is about? Exchanging ideas? Then he said it was a lecture class, not a discussion class, and I was like, “They are so fucking attached to their stupid definitions,” and he was like, “It’s not a definition, it’s just the way it is,” and I was like, “Dad, that doesn’t even make any sense,” but no one ever said he’s the brains in the family. I mean, how much brains does it take to be an out-of-work realtor? Then I said, “How do they expect to be a successful genius factory if they don’t allow some sort of discourse?” and he said, “Go to your room,” and I said, “Gladly,” because really, the only appeal to the rest of the house is the bathroom and the kitchen, and I’m so not hungry, and I can pee out my window if I have to.
Iz
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Wednesday, December 21—5:01 PM
Subject: Re: spelling
Dear Isabel,
I’m glad you’re feeling better. Did you talk to your parents about me coming to visit?
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
; To: condorboy
Date: Friday, December 23—4:37 AM
Subject: ART!
Holy shit, Connor!
I just made the best art I’ve ever made in my whole life! Screw those stupid watercolors and wood prints I did this summer. Child’s play! Well, to be honest, I didn’t actually get to finish, and it doesn’t actually exist anymore, but the IDEA was awesome and that’s what really counts, right?
So my mom was pissing me off as usual because she was trying to convince me that being a business major is the only way to go, and I was like, “Do you even know who I am?” and she started complaining about how a degree in fine arts or creative writing is totally worthless, and then I said, “What about a double-major in fine arts and creative writing?” which I thought was pretty funny, but she started screaming about me not taking anything seriously, so I started screaming about her taking everything too seriously, and my dad was trying to calm us down, but neither of us ever takes him seriously, so she said, “Go to your room,” and Dad said, “What about dinner?” and I said, “I don’t need dinner,” and Mom said, “She doesn’t need dinner,” all at the same time. So I went up to my room and started kicking things and ripping up all the paper I could find, and that’s when I got my brilliant idea.
So I went into my mom’s office and found the files where she keeps all the bank statements and stock reports and every stupid piece of paper with dollar signs on it that she saves so lovingly, and I don’t think she ever saved a piece of my artwork like that, all the pictures I drew in kindergarten, the little crayon scribbles normal parents proudly display on the fridge or tuck away safely in a cherished box. Some parents have torn-out coloring-book pages; my mom has papers that tell her how much money she’s made, and she loves those things like they came from inside of her. So, naturally, I had to take them. I went through the whole room and found all the papers I could find, and I carried the big stack to my room and just started tearing everything up, all of it into little jagged pieces, and I think it took me hours, but when I was done I had a pile of fluffy white paper, and it looked so innocent like that, all torn up, like it never had the power it once did, like it could never have been so cruel. It was this brand-new soft thing, devoid of meaning, nothing but texture.
My mom was in bed, asleep, and my dad was in the den watching TV, so nobody noticed me take the blender from the kitchen. My music was so loud that nobody noticed the sound of the paper and water in the blender being turned into pulp. And the paper was transformed yet again; now it was a big lump of drenched, heavy mush, with this nice, sweet, earthy smell, and I wadded it up into balls and squeezed the water into my trash can; I squeezed with all the strength I could, all the energy that was sizzling inside me, and it made this gray chunky soup that almost looked delicious. Then I took the screen off my window and used my stupid Economics textbook to press the balls into the screen, squeezing the rest of the water into my carpet, the 100% wool top-of-the-line carpet my mom is so proud of, and I pressed and pressed until it was as dry as it could be, and I was just about to start sculpting with it, I was going to make a paper sculpture of my mom, I was going to let it dry and become hard and strong, and then I was going to spray it with a hose so it’d get mushy all over again and fall apart and my mom would be reduced to nothing; all her money would be shapeless, ugly mush.
That was the rest of my plan, anyway, but I never got to do it. Because of course my mom couldn’t sleep, because she was thinking about money, so she had to get up and go to her office, and what did she find but empty files and all her papers gone, so of course she freaked out, and of course she barged into my room and found me drenched and covered with pulp, and big puddles on the expensive carpet, and clumps of mush stuck in various places around the room, and she had a sort of meltdown while I just sat there trying to sculpt, and I thought for a second how thoughtful it was for her to come model for the sculpture, but then she tore wet paper out of my hand, grabbed everything she could find that I might want and threw it into the hallway. She was screaming her head off, all sorts of things coming out of her mouth, but the only thing I could really hear was “What the hell is wrong with you?” and that stuck with me for some reason because I was wondering the same thing myself.
So needless to say, I’m in trouble. I’m “grounded,” apparently, which is something new they’re trying out, and I don’t think they quite know how it works because they didn’t actually think to mention what I’m grounded from. My dad suggested I go to therapy, but that just started a new fight between them about my mom basically saying, “Oh yeah? Who exactly is going to pay for this therapy, huh? Not you, obviously, since you haven’t had a job in six months.” And then it wasn’t about me anymore. I’m not worried because I know they’d never make me go to a therapist. It would require too much work on their part to actually find one and make appointments and so on. So things will probably continue as normal, except they’ll probably give me the silent treatment for a while, which is perfectly fine with me.
Iz
Sunday, December 25—3:46 PM
condorboy: caught you again
yikes!izzy: damn you
condorboy: merry xmas
yikes!izzy: bleh
condorboy: what are you doing?
yikes!izzy: bleh
condorboy: got your email
condorboy: so you’re grounded?
condorboy: guess i can’t come visit next weekend?
yikes!izzy: visit visit visit, that’s all you think about
yikes!izzy: do you think you’re going to get laid or something?
yikes!izzy: it’s kind of pathetic
yikes!izzy: hello?
yikes!izzy: so now you’re giving me the silent treatment
yikes!izzy: great
yikes!izzy: fuck you too
condorboy: i’m not giving you the silent treatment
condorboy: i just don’t have a response to you being an asshole
yikes!izzy: yeah yeah
yikes!izzy: sorry sorry sorry
yikes!izzy: i apologize profusely
yikes!izzy: didn’t mean it
yikes!izzy: been really irritable lately
yikes!izzy: haven’t been sleeping well
yikes!izzy: blah blah sorry blah
yikes!izzy: forgive me?
condorboy: i guess
condorboy: so what’s your family doing for xmas?
[yikes!izzy is offline.]
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Monday, December 26—8:27 PM
Subject: zoo
My dearest Connor,
I’m like an animal trapped in a cage, pacing back and forth, waiting for someone to feed me. But I just realized they don’t have any food! So I’m going out tonight, with or without my parents’ permission. My window is not that far from the ground, when you think about it, if you squint your eyes in just the right way. I’m pretty sure I can jump out without breaking anything. Either that or just walk out the front door when no one’s looking, which is pretty much always because the front door is in the middle of the house and my parents like to be as far away from each other as possible, which means not in the middle of the house, so I pretty much have a straight shot to freedom if I want it. But jumping out the window sounds a little more fun, doesn’t it? Yes. The answer is yes.
Iz
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Monday, December 26—9:16 PM
Subject: Re: zoo
Isabel,
Do I even need to say “Don’t jump out the window?” Should I even bother? I think I like it better when you’re depressed.
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Tuesday, December 27—11:13 PM
Subject:
Connor,
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
I fucked up big-time. And I’m not just being dramatic. I don’t even want to t
ell you. You’re going to hate me. Please don’t hate me.
I cheated on Trevor last night. I know you’re not particularly fond of Trevor, but you’re the most principled person I know, so even if I was dating Hitler, you’d probably think I was an asshole for cheating on him. I wasn’t planning on doing it. I just wanted to go out. So I did. I didn’t even have to jump out the window, you’ll be happy to know. And I just so happened to park my car a little down the street, so my parents couldn’t hear me drive away. But that’s not the point. The point is, I drove up to Capitol Hill and went to a bar and ordered a drink even though I hate drinking. And then this guy in an Elmo T-shirt asked if he could buy me another drink, and I really liked his shirt, and the bartender was sick of talking to me, so I said yes, and then we started talking and I think he bought me another drink, and I clearly remember getting stupider and stupider. It was like I suddenly had this primal instinct to be stupid, and I couldn’t stop. I remember asking him to tell me the story behind all his tattoos, and I think I actually pretended to listen to him explain why the copy of Hokusai’s The Great Wave on his forearm means so much to him, although of course he didn’t even know the artist’s name, and the girl at the end of the bar had the exact same tattoo and she probably didn’t know the artist’s name, either, and all of a sudden it seemed like everyone in the entire bar had the exact same tattoos and the jukebox was playing something stupid, and I just needed to feel something and the alcohol wasn’t enough, and he was there and he was wearing that Elmo shirt, so I turned to him and looked into his big, brown, stupid bloodshot eyes, and I put my hand on The Great Wave, and I screamed over the music, “Let’s go to your place!” So we did. And luckily he only lived a couple blocks away because there’s no way I should have been driving, but the scary thing is I probably would have, if I had to. My favorite uncle died in a drunk-driving accident, and I promised myself at age eight that I would never, ever, EVER drive drunk. You can’t just go back on a promise like that. You just can’t.